Bia Hoi and pho

Saigon/Ho Chi Minh city. You choose. I chose Saigon, I think I'm quite old fashioned. I still call Indian cities by their colonial name, Bombay, Calcutta and Benares; Myanmar for me is still Burma. I do not mean to be disrespectful towards the locals, but I discovered these places with Kipling and Orwell, so I'll use the names they use. Plus Rangoon sounds way more evocative than Yangon, Madras is a much nicer name than Chennai. Saigon is rather different, it's been the city's name for centuries, until the end of the war and Reunification. So what a better place to name after the fallen Uncle Ho than the centrepoint of American resistance? Unfortunately, Ho didn't live to see the day. Altough Vietnam's capital is officially Hanoi (anybody familiar with recent history will know why), Saigon is the commercial centre, the largest and liveliest city.




I loved Saigon instantly. I have a fondness for Asian cities; I love the street carts, the atmosphere, the Buddhist and Chinese temple. I love the energy, the sense of being 'on the move'. Saigon was a good example; it doesn't have many sights as such, but it's just nice to be there. Try crossing the road, for example. A sea of bicycles, cyclos, motorbikes and the odd car is between you and the other side. A current that gives no sign of stopping or even easing. Plus, no traffic light. How do you do it? Slowly, step by step, steadily. What a metaphor for life and seemingly unachievable tasks. When something looks as daunting as a Vietnamese road, just take the first step and keep going. The first step is the hardest, once you've started, you're halfway there.







Most sights in Saigon are war or Revolution related. We visited the Reunification Palace, the former presidential palace who was stormed by Vietcong on the day Saigon fell. The palace itself was nothing spectacular, a rather nondescript building with 60s furniture, but it was interesting to see how the basement was used as headquarters for the South Vietnamese intelligence. The War Remnants Museum was another story. It used to be called American War Crimes museum, giving an idea of the exhibits. There were pictures of napalm and Agent Orange victims, wounded soldiers and civilians, the devastation of the war. What impressed me mostly was an account of how Agent Orange, the defoliant used plentifully be the American army, has caused birth defects for years after the war was over. Pictures of children and young adults with crooked or missing limbs, cleft palate or other facial deformations covered a whole wall. There were even two foetuses in formaldehyde; one of Siamese twins, one with a head deformation. I left shaking. I was also shocked by the images of the My Lai massacre, the murder of a whole village by the hand of American soldiers. Nearly 500 children, women and elders were killed; accused of being VC supporters. Sarcastically, the following quote from the US declaration of independence was displayed nearby
"we hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit for Happiness"





On a lighter note, my time in Saigon will also be inextricably linked to the discovery of two new flavours; pho and bia hoi. Pho is the quintessential Vietnamese soup; half cooked beef in a rich broth, with rice noodles and a variety of ingredients that can be added at will, such as beansprouts, mint leaves, various tangy and bitter green leaves, chilli and plum sauce, plus a squeeze of lime juice. Rich and nourishing, perhaps the best soup after Penang. Bia hoi, on the other hand... will probably remain as my memory of Vietnam. Roughly translated as 'fresh beer', bia hoi are microbreweries, offering jugs of draught beer for 12.000 dong (less than 50 euro cent). Tables are bunched up together on the pavement; conversations inevitably flourish. The people watching was my favourite activity. From my streetside seat I saw an endless procession of cyclos, streetvendors selling anything from sunglasses to mangosteens, American veterans that came during the war and stayed. A reclined my plastic stool and enjoyed the show; a snapshot of life in Saigon, or Ho Chi Minh City.

Elephant ear fish

Like durian and marmite, Vietnam seems to be another place that travellers either love or hate. Why? I hared lots of different reasons, from the quicker pace of life, to the relentless harassment, to the lack of veggie food. All valid reasons, I guess. I was just about to see for myself. A short and expnsive ride from Kep took us to the border, and since there to the border town of Ha Tien. The difference with Cambodia and Laos couldn't have been more obvious. Firstly, Vietnamese look different from the rest of SE Asians. They are more slender and fair-skinned, more Chinese-looking. Ladies are absolutely stunning. Friendliness is not easy to detect for a newcomer, business seemed to be Vietnamese's only concern. Join this mindframe with the presence of Westerners and you get the result; ripoffs, harassing and the ubiquitous 'where you go?'... needless to say I was quickly losing my temper. I was not liking Vietnam.






Shame, though. I always pride myself of being able to find a good point, everywhere I go. But after that first day, Vietnam was looking like a tough challenge. I found myself haggling over bus rides and bottles of water. I felt like everybody out there wanted to rip me off, to get that wee bit extra as 'white tax'. It bothered and enraged me. That evening, a tout quoted $ 25 for a boat trip around Can Tho's floating market. 25 dollars! you must be joking! I said. He did not seem to budge at first. Eventually, we paid about 10 dollars for the trip.



Anyway, that's the background. The first three days in Vietnam were spent mourning our depatrure from Cambodia, wishing we were still there. We were in the Mekong delta, travelling to Saigon via Can Tho and Ben Tre. The Mekong delta was far from being the 'bucolic paradise' described by guidebooks. Can Tho and Ben Tre (who was suggested as being a 'lovely little relaxing place) were in fact medium-sized towns, clogged with traffic and with septic bubbling 'rivers'. What a sad demise for the mighty mekong, who greeted us into Laos, followed us down the spine of Indochina and into Cambodia. I could not believe that the emerald-coloured waters of Don Det, the teal expanse separating Laos and Thailand at Pakse and Vientiane was the same river we saw in the delta. Ok, if we want to be precise, it's not. The murky waters at can Tho seemed to be carrying the sorrows and troubles of Indochina into oblivion. Like a tired old woman, bidding farewell to life.




We did the Mekong delta thing, floating markets. I loved the market we saw, it looked authentic, not a tourist show like Damnoen Saduak near Bangkok. Plus we had the best pineapple I have ever tasted. But besides that, everything was rather dull. Boat tours everywhere, visiting the same old handicraft shops, factories and orchards. Like I came to Vietnam to see some bloody fruit trees! We have to thank the organised tours from Saigon for this. Anyway, we also passed on the classic mekong delta activity, homestay, when we learnt it was $10 per person. I like homestays, but I don't see the point of getting out of one's way to stay at someone's house. It's always the same old story at the end of the day.




So we headed for Ben Tre, the 'lovely relaxing little place'. After multiple rip-off attempts and a near-death experience thanks to a drunk moto driver, we reached the guesthouse we had chosen. It was a bit shabby around the edges, but nice. For dinner we had their 'world famous elephant ear fish'; a large freshwater fish fried and served with spring roll wrappers and a variety of vegetables, plus fish sauce (the real stuff). They even had snake and turtle on the menu, but the price put us off. Anyway, the fish was delicious, the family really friendly. I decided Vietnam was not so bad. Did I or did I not like it? Keep following me and find out...

Crab in Kampot pepper, and the ghost house

There was another place I wanted to visit in Cambodia. I had once seen the picture of a decrepit building, surrounded by mist and seemingly lost in the jungle; for a long time I wondered where it was. The place was Bokor Hill station, near Kep. Only 5 of us reached Kep, having lost 2 on the way. And for everybody, Bokor was up there on the list. Kampot is a quaint and relaxing town, lying riverside with an interesting collection of French colonial buildings. Touristy enough to have good guesthouses, but out of the Siem Reap-PP-Sihanoukville axis and the interminable street peddling attached. It was nice enough to spend a few hours wandering around. We discovered Cambodian durians were in season. My readers will be familiar on my keenness for the king of fruit; a love that is rarely found in Caucasian people. In most cases, when Westerners sample the delectable flesh of this beautiful fruit, they either gag or lying through their teeth say 'it's alright'. If there ever was one thing that you can either love or hate, that's durian. Nobody who is speaking the truth would ever define it as 'alright'. I love it, and needless to say I stuffed my face with it.





But onto Bokor now. We arranged a trip there the previous day, and found out it was an all-day affair including a five hours trek. Why? Courtesy of the omnipresent Sokha group, who purchased the land to build a Las Vegas style resort on the grounds of the former hill station, hence closing the access road. Doesn't matter that the surrounding area is protected National Park. What is done for the tourist dollar (or shall I say yen, or yuan? I like to think no Westerner in their right ming would ever stay in such an environmentally-unfriendly eyesore). See, I fall into my old ways, ranting whenever I get the chance. Let me explain. Bokor Hill Station was built by the French in the 1920s as a hill station, to complement Kep-sur-Mer, lying a few kilometers away on the coast. In a typical European view, the hill station was built to provide dignitaries and important visitors to the colony with the possibility to escape the heat and enjoy the fresh air. It occupies an enviable position, perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean over a thousand meters below. The resort was in full swing until the late 1940, when the French abandoned it retreating from Indochina. It was still sporadically used, until the Khmer Rouge takeover when it became an operation base. It was one of the sites of heaviest fighting during the Cambodian-Vietnamese war that marked the end of the Khmer Rouge. Subsequently, it was used as a hiding place for the last pockets of Khmer Rouge, who only abandoned the area in the late Nineties.






I especially enjoyed having to hike to get to the station. As I said, the access road was closed, so we followed a very rough and steep trail until two-thirds up the mountain, from where we were picked up by a truck for the final strech. The hike was uneventful, but enjoyable nonetheless. As always, when the road is hard, the reward is higher. And up the top, the view was spectacular. The centrepiece of the station is the former Bokor Palace Hotel, which is now in ruins, but still standing proudly on its prime position by the cliffside. We walked around the building, pausing to eat a lunch of fried rice in the former ballroom. The ballroom had a staircase leading onto the garden backing onto the cliff. My imagination started wandering, aided by the silence and eerieness of the location. I imagined Gatsbyesque parties, Kir Royales at sunset, dramas, loves lost and found. Relics of times gone by, when men wore hats and there was always a piano player in the background.




However, this is only one side of the story. What was a temple to joie de vivre became a theatre for the atrocities of war. Bullet holes covered these once-magnificent walls. The stairways where beautiful ladies strolled on their ways to a ball were now collapsed. The luxurious hotel was reduced to a burnt and blackened shell. Still, the atmosphere of decadence was captivating. Our guide explained that Sokha decided to move the construction site further away from the Palace Hotel because the area is haunted. Buddhists believe that those who aren't given a proper burial will remain on Earth as spirits; plenty of people died on the grounds and, supposedly, still remain there. From the ghosts of Khmer Rouge or Vietnamese soldiers, to the spirits of those who lost so much in the hotel's casino that were left with no choice but jump to their deats on the cliffs below. Will the well-heeled customers of the future deluxe resort have sleepless nights? Who knows, perhaps serves Sokha right for building such an obscenity in National Park territory. However, my comment coud prove to be narrow-minded. I asked our guide on hs opinion about the Sokha resort, and he replied making reference to the amount of jobs the resort will give to local people. I guess it's a fine line, balancing the need for environmental protection with a desire to help local economy. Somewhat, I don't think this is Sokha's primary concern, but there you are. That's yet another story.



Fast forward a couple of days, and we're in Kep, our last destination in Cambodia and the place where we bade farewell to the rest of our travelling buddies. Kep was the seaside's answer to Bokor during colonial times. Nowadays, it has developed into a nondescript Cambodian town, although the relics of colonial villas remain. The stretch of coast is pretty uninspiring too, vaguely reminiscent of Cote d'Azur with the sea splashing on rocky cliffs, which quickly turn into verdant hills. None of the broad sandy Southeast Asian beaches. With a sunset walk and a meal of crab fried in Kampot pepper, we bade farewell to our companions and yet another chapter of our travels. Good morning Vietnam, the adventure continues.

Grilled squid and crayfish, or dangerous snorkelling

Everybody knows I'm not a beach person. I shun the typical 'backpacker activity' of bumming around Thai islands for months on end, searching for the 'beach' (maybe a certain movie and book have someting to do with it?), only to find flimsy overpriced bungalows, average falang food and expensive beer. I don't enjoy lying in the sun, getting wet every now and then (watching out for sea urchins and jellyfish!) and finding my bed in the aformentioned flimsy bungalow full of sand. Give me an Asian capital, a market, temples, food courts and treking, and I'll be set. I'll leave the beach to the gap-yearers. Nick agrees with me, he is possibly even less keen, as he doesn't enjoy swimming. So it will probably come as a surprise to hear we spent an amazing week in the Cambodian south, between Sihanoukville, Kampot and Kep.



There was this bunch of people we kept crossing paths with, since Southern Laos. That's one of the wonders of travelling; like-minded people are easy to find, and easy to meet again as most people follow the same itinerary around South East Asia. We met these people again in Siem Reap and Battambang, and decided to visit the south of Cambodia together. First stop was Sihanoukville, the premier beach resort on Cambodia's diminutive coastline. Probably not a destination I would've chosen for the two of us, but the prospect of spending a few days in company of others looked rather inviting. The bus trip to Sihanoukville showed the advantages of travelling with a 'group'. As it happens, the bus broke down. We waited on the roadside whilst the damage was assessed, various repairs were attempted (and failed), and finally whilst a replacement bus was sent from Phnom Penh. A 4 hours wait for a 4 hours bus trip. However, between a game of hearts and one of 51, waiting by the roadside was never so enjoyable.



To cut a long story short, and not bother you all with the same 'been there, stayed in such and such guesthouse' babble, I'll skip to our final destination, Otres Beach. We spent three days with a lot more Hearts, card games and small talk. We watched the sun set in the sea every evening, ate fish tacos and drank beer with our feet in the sand. Every lunchtime we had grilled squid and crayfish from two lovely ladies hawking their produce along the beach, certainly up there in the 'top 5' street food I have had in all these months. The only blunder was a snorkelling trip we took. The boatpeople, however friendly and lovely, were clearly inexperienced and anchored on a reef, one of the first and foremost environmental no-nos. And the water was far too shallow, resulting in multiple injuries for the snorkellers. And to top it off, it started to rain. I have forgotten to mention that the wet season is starting, and since Battambang has rained nearly every day. The rain comes in downpours which last from a few minutes to an hour, usually offering some respite from the stifling heat. However, with a few bloodied feet and generally a low morale, the downpour in this case was less than welcome.



Somewhat, there is a completely unrelated topic I wish to mention. I have spoken about Cambodia's poverty, and the subsequent willingness for some locals to make a 'quick buck'. This phenomenon had a dual consequence for me and my image of Cambodia and Cambodians. On one hand, I was bothered by the continuous offers of 'you buy?', yes, I have been rude to some of the vendors, especially with those trying the 'emotional blackmail' card. On the other hand, it made me sad, thinking that the myriad street peddlers are not the only ones who suffer. Say, living in Siem Reap and hawking around the temple, one is pretty much assured to return home with a few dollars at the end of the day. In rural Cambodia, I'm not so sure. There are plenty who suffer without flaunting it, because they do not even have the possibility to do so.



And I'll tell a story now. In Otres beach I met Rowan (not sure about the name's spelling), a beautiful 24-year old who ran the guesthouse we stayed at. She studied accounting and was keen to chat in English. I noticed some baby paraphernalia in the beach hut where she lives with her husband, and inquired after the baby. She said, he's dead, at 5 months. She pointed at the phone receiver and said 'he was this big'. Then, I realised she was talking about a stillbirth, and quickly said 'nevermind'. I recalled talking to another woman in Siem Reap whose baby also died at birth. In three weeks in Cambodia, I met two women who experienced stillbirths. In 25 years in the West, I never met any. But what caught me was the way both women seemed absolutely not bothered by the fact they had lost a child. They both accepted their fate, blaming their children's death on inadequate and unaffordable medical care.



This episode made me think about what we need as human beings. A Romanian man once said to me 'the most important things in life are health and freedom'. Too many people nowadays worry about trivial things, and in this I include work. Too many people work just to put more money in already-full pockets, when at the same time, there are women in Cambodia who are unable to give birth safely, for whom a child's death is nothing more than just another accident in the struggle for life.